


Prettier Bodies at Hand

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Couch Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hair Brushing, House Cleaning, Kneeling, Master/Servant Roleplay, Masturbation, Naked Male Clothed Female, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexual Fantasy, Sub Mycroft, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 05:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12074604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Another work fuck-up leaves Mycroft with a need to be verbally excoriated and Alicia with a desire to have someone halfway nice-looking in to clean.





	Prettier Bodies at Hand

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is basically standalone porn but does reference previous episodes in the "fucking your colleague" saga. Also as always, many thanks to Nicola and Lou for their Britpicking; any remaining issues are mine and are welcome to be pointed out in comments. 
> 
> See the endnotes for content advisories if necessary. 
> 
> [My tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) hosts all sorts of pop cultural cheekiness if that's your thing.

The ambassador’s dinner was a badly contained rubbish fire even before the hors d’oeuvres were served, culminating in downing two flutes of champagne while fielding phone calls from multiple MI branches. Her evening did not improve when Mycroft was on the other end of the line.

“I apologize.”

Her temples throbbed as she leaned her forehead into the cool glass of the ambassador’s window. Behind her, a member of the Foreign Office was arguing in Mandarin into his own phone, his voice mingling with the general party din.

“Are you involved in _every_ cock-up that comes from east of, oh, Canary Wharf, or do you just particularly hate my specific briefs?”

“Go home, Alicia.” His voice was frayed. “I've got your unruly asset under control now—”

“I don't actually believe that.”

“—and Russia will still unfortunately exist in the morning.”

“You won't.” She sounded petty more than threatening to her own ears, a small child forced to stay up later than she ought. “You've ruined a perfectly good Saturday evening with this incompetence.”

“Go to bed.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Whoever you made plans with for after dinner can keep until another night.”

She hung up and sent for her car. She was half asleep in the back seat, ears ringing with weariness and booze, when her phone buzzed against her thigh.

_You can take it out of my hide this time as well._

Her reply was the first thing her addled brain threw forth.

_I need a manservant, not a whipping post._

_Noted._

Mycroft’s response came as she climbed her front steps. She was in bed, scanning through email from between half-closed eyes, when his next text arrived.

_Eleven am._

She snorted and locked her phone.

* * *

The insistent hum of her ringtone woke her. She answered without lifting her head from the pillow.

“Smallwood.”

“It's nine thirty.”

Mycroft’s voice was pinched. She opened her eyes fully.

“Are you a wake-up service?”

“I said eleven. Is eleven good?”

She rubbed between her eyebrows. “For—?”

“Debriefing.”

It was entirely deadpan, forcing her to muffle her sudden shriek of laughter against the sheet. Her throat still tickled as she leaned back into the phone.

“Christ. I'm not moving.”

“I’ll come to you.”

He rang off before she could incriminate them further to any prying ears.

She was downstairs filling the kettle, in her dressing gown and little else, when the doorbell rang. She opened the door onto Mycroft, huddled shivering in a peacoat against the spring air, a beribboned box in his hands.

“Apologies.”

“Buying my complaisance?” She closed the door behind him as Mycroft entered the kitchen. “I don't come cheaply.”

He rolled his eyes, his long fingers tangling in the ribbon. “Too right. No, this is breakfast, to which you are grudgingly invited.”

“Very thoughtful of you to include me in my own house.”

The quiche inside was delicious nonetheless, small slices eaten standing on opposite ends of the kitchen island, off of saucers straight from the dish rack. She finished first and leaned forward to watch Mycroft pick his way through crust.

“You did not sleep last night.”

His lips puckered around his fork.

“And you did, all too well, my lady.”

“I was only following instructions.” She slid two fingers around the edge of her plate, watching as Mycroft swallowed. “What do I want with a sleep-deprived civil servant?”

His smile was tentative. “I'm here to serve. My lady.”

Her breasts brushed the countertop, and Mycroft dutifully glanced down at them before returning his attention to his last bite of quiche.

“Ask, pet, or in my lingering foul mood I will put you to frankly horrific use.”

He studied the crumbs on his saucer until she pushed the plate aside, whereupon he studied the veins of her hands instead. She drew her thumb against his while he shivered.

“I fucked up again.”

Silence, except for the rustling of her dressing gown as she shifted her weight further forward, spilling one bare breast free against cool granite. Mycroft bit his lip.

“I almost got people killed. I made several people’s nights...extremely bad.”

She ran a fingertip across the gold band around one of his fingers. He jerked his hand away.

“I missed incredibly obvious things yet again, things which I am paid specifically to foresee, and threw a region into intelligence hell.”

She pulled his other hand forward until it met her exposed breast. His fingers trembled against her skin as she kept her grip tight around his wrist.

“You're berating yourself quite badly.”

He closed his eyes. “And so I will unless someone does it for me.”

“A tongue lashing? And here I just wanted someone to clean my house and rub my feet.”

He thumbed her nipple. “Please.”

She massaged his wrist, almost gently, before pushing him away, straightening as he looked down at the countertop.

“I don't think I want to be touched by someone so useless, do you?”

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing even as he wrapped his fingers around his plate.

“Clean this mess up and make me a cuppa while I go upstairs.” When he opened his eyes, she continued, “Don't bother wearing anything when I come back down.”

She took her time dressing, though it was all simply done—long pleated skirt, a cowl neck jumper that was incredibly comfortable, with nothing underneath. After a moment of hesitation in the mirror, she left her hair down, a thin greying cloud across her shoulders. The face that looked back at her reminded her of nothing so much as her secondary headmistress, a woman who had hidden her gaze behind polo necks whenever her charges were caught practicing intimacy with one another behind closed doors.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, depositing her laptop and a stack of paperwork on the sitting room sofa on her way through, the countertop and sink were clean. She smiled at them before turning her attention to a blindingly pale Mycroft, standing alongside the fridge, whose hands twitched at his sides, though he resolutely did not move to cover his naked cock.

“Hmm.”

Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“You are beautiful.”

“Yes, I am.” She stepped toward him, glancing down at his soft prick. “A pity that's what you have to offer me.”

He swallowed. “If it doesn't please—”

“Bring me that ribbon. From the box,” she added, when he did not move. “Don't tell me you threw it away.”

The ribbon was atop the quiche box in the recycling bin. He brought it to her hesitantly, his hands vibrating as they brushed hers. She pulled it taut, its grey-white threads shimmering.

“Come here.”

“I am—”

His cock was warm in her hand as she wrapped two fingers around it. He stilled, his breath a tight exhale as she tied a bow around its base.

“I hope it hasn't had time to pick up any sort of bacteria.” She shrugged as she stepped away from him. “I guess you'll find out soon enough.”

“Recycling doesn't have bacteria,” he told her right shoulder, where his eyes were fixed on the flow of her hair.

“Bully for you. That little worm is mine for now, do you agree?”

Mycroft looked down at the floor. “Yes. Mistress.”

Her pulse jumped into her throat, though she kept her smile flinty. “Be a good boy and do not touch it until I allow you to do so.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Some of us have important work to do, cleaning up after an absolute mess some idiot made in Russia last night. Do you know what _your_ work is, boy?”

Mycroft’s cock twitched within its faux-silk ornament.

“No, mistress.”

“You can dust, for a start. After you bring that tea to me. Cream, no sugar.”

She did not look back as she returned to the sofa. Mycroft reappeared after about a minute and a half, hovering at her elbow as she opened her laptop.

“Mistress.”

She took the mug from him without looking at his face.

“I think you'll find all the cleaning supplies in the stair cupboard.”

His body heat lingered next to her for a moment as he slid into a jerky bow. Her stomach tingled while he backed away.

“Mistress.”

Mycroft was a quiet worker, after an initial burst of bitten-off cursing while he fumbled through the supply cupboard. She fought to keep her face still while she scrolled through her latest emails, though gradually her awareness of him faded as she sank back into the work of filtering through reports.

The tea he had brought was at least bearable.

She next became aware of Mycroft when she looked up from a report to see him kneeling, duster in hand, halfway across the room, his wary eyes flickering. His cock was still soft between his thighs, though some skin had gone red around the ribbon.

“If I find any dust around here later, I will ask for your arse.”

He rubbed a palm against his thigh.

“What next, my—mistress?”

She drained the last, cool centimeter of her tea. “I always meant to have the shelves in here alphabetized.”

Rather than focus on anything related to the safekeeping of national interests, she watched him work, the long lines of his legs culminating in his pale but broad arse. After a few minutes of silence, in which he stood on the book ladder hovering over the top shelf, his head bent to avoid collision with the ceiling, she wiped her own hand against the folds of her skirt.

“It's good to see you actually working, for once.”

His spine stiffened, though he did not stop moving.

“I suppose you can't fuck up _all_ the time, though; that would be unrealistic.”

“Broken clocks.” Mycroft's voice was hoarse, and she followed the twist of his arse as he bent to replace a book. “Mistress.”

“Why do you call me that, boy?”

The line of his shoulders, previously remarkably at ease for a naked man cleaning someone else's house, went tight. His hands paused.

“It seemed—right, my lady.”

He turned until his eyes appeared over his shoulder, seeking hers. She let him have them for a moment before flicking her fingers back toward the shelf. He looked obediently away.

“And does it seem right to your pale, untoned arse to be physically outclassed by a woman twenty years your senior?”

Mycroft grabbed the edge of the ladder.

“My mistress is terrifyingly fit.” His thigh dug into wood. “I am not. I apologize.” He took in a breath, as if measuring the judiciousness of his words. “My mistress is good to keep me anyway, when she has prettier bodies at hand.”

“I do not keep you around for your beauty, boy, God knows.” She stared at his arse and thighs anyway, burying her nails in her palm in an attempt at curbing the impulse to reach out and squeeze. “Sometimes a pet project is useful. Charity keeps the soul in good health, or so I am told.”

Mycroft looked down at the floor. “Yes, mistress.”

“When you finish, come back down here.”

“Ma’am.”

Her lips curled, though she did not reply as he returned to shelving. She had mostly forgotten his hypnotic dutiful swaying, cream-colored skin against dark wood shelving, by the time he sank onto his knees before her once more.

“My lady.”

She looked down at the slack expression across his face and the watery grey of his eyes, large and yet calm. His cock had grown stiffer and redder, a vicious contrast to his ashen legs, and he shifted his weight from one haunch to the other, his hands digging into the meat of his waist, as she watched.

She lifted the hem of her skirt, gathering the fabric to her knees, and he fell forward, his nose inches from her legs. Her lower abdomen throbbed as she pressed a foot against his chest until he halted.

“I do hope you don't think I would let such a sad specimen anywhere near my cunt, boy.”

His lips moved, though they produced no sound.

“A lazy, fleshy thing, of no physical beauty and questionable professional competence? Good lord, one must have higher standards than that.”

He groaned.

“No, I think the best you're good for is feet, don't you?”

“Yes, mistress,” he whispered. His hand across the top of her foot was cool and yet sweaty. “Thank you, my lady.”

She leaned back and shifted her laptop further away, closing her eyes as he began to massage. His touch was steady and soft, and his breathing was audible. It increased in volume, alongside the pounding of her own heart, as she undid her zipper.

“Pl _ease_ let me help.”

She pushed one foot directly into his face, narrowly avoiding his nose, as her hand slid under her waistband.

“You are helping, boy.” She groaned, dramatically loudly, as her thumb brushed her clit. Mycroft sighed; she smiled. “It’s only been, what, an hour? Lazy.”

“Please, ma’am.”

She opened one eye, a finger halfway to her cunt.

“Call me that again, boy, and I will lock you outside with no clothing.”

His face colored. After a moment he began rubbing the balls of her feet again.

“That's a good boy.” She slid her finger inside and moaned again, even more loudly. Mycroft's hands slipped. “You worry about the feet, darling, and let a competent adult take care of what matters.”

He continued his massage, his hands sturdy and slowly warming, as she began a slow rocking back and forth against her palm. With her eyes closed she could not judge if he was behaving himself, and his breathing was increasingly ragged. She rode her hand to a fast, rough orgasm, imagining herself astride the lap of last night’s rugby player guest of honor whose thighs she had been admiring before all hell broke loose.

When she opened her eyes again, her breasts were sticking to her jumper and Mycroft was newly shiny with his own sweat. She slid a foot down his chest to his stiff cock.

“Why are you hard?”

He shivered without looking away from her. “I love to watch my mistress wank.”

“Oh, do you like to imagine being skilled enough to make someone come?” Her voice ran with a theatrical fluency she had long since resigned to interrogation training, and for a moment she was opposite Mycroft again across a table. “That is charming.”

Mycroft blushed, barely noticeable against the blotchy pink of his face, though he continued meeting her gaze. Her cunt pulsed, weakly but contentedly, at the desire in his stare.

“Did you behave yourself, pet?” His cock was hot and hard beneath her toes, jumping as she dragged them along its length. “Must I lock your friend up with padlock and key, or is some silk tat enough?”

He did not speak until she pressed down, trapping his prick against his thigh.

“I behaved, I didn't—”

She released him, pulling herself into a proper sitting position and ignoring the draft around her feet and ankles as she resettled her skirt.

“Do you know, I think the kitchen floor might need scrubbing.”

Mycroft took a moment to breathe, his thighs and hands twitching in the peripheral glimpse she allowed herself of his sweaty body at her feet. His voice was thin but deadpan when he spoke.

“With a...mop, mistress?”

She smiled at her laptop as she hauled it back onto her lap.

“If you like.”

He was nearly as silent at mopping as he was at dusting and alphabetizing, though the slap of fabric against floor was both rhythmic and soothing as it floated in and out of her consciousness. By the time he finished and returned to the sitting room, his arousal had faded some, though he still watched her with eager, uncertain eyes.

“Are you hungry, pet?”

He glanced back into the kitchen before focusing on her hands against her keyboard. “Are you, mistress? Are there watercress sandwiches I can make?”

“Do not.” She bit down on her lip to subdue a laugh. “Bring another cuppa. Surprise me.”

He returned fifteen noisy minutes later with a tray laden with mug, bowl, and plate.

“Cheese on toast, mistress.”

At that she did laugh, openly, as she tossed the computer aside. “Tomato soup, or it all goes in the bin.”

“From the finest portion of your freezer, my lady.” He knelt as she took the tray from him. “And tea. Cream, no sugar.”

“Sit,” she said, drinking. The cushion next to her was empty, but he settled on the hardwood by her feet again, leaning near her as she took a bite.

“Good, mistress?” he asked the hem of her skirt as she chewed.

She slid one hand into his hair, stroking back toward his ear, and felt him sag against her knee. “Very tolerable.” She ripped off a corner of bread. “Would you like some, pet?”

He took it from her hand with his mouth, so exactly like one of Woody’s old hunting dogs that she smiled anew. They chewed in silence, she stroking his hair all the while, through both slices of toast—two bites to her for every scrap she offered him—and the bowl of soup, of which he got the dregs at the bottom.

“Your mess is about fixed,” she told the top of his head as he licked the spoon clean. “I think Smyth will demand a meeting with you nonetheless.”

“Anthea fixed most of it, last night,” he admitted, looking up at her with weary eyes. “I yelled at two people over the phone and paced.”

“I yelled at three people and gave myself a champagne headache.”

He leaned his forehead into her skirts. “Mistress.”

She released his hair, waiting, though he did little aside from sigh.

“Yes, boy?”

“What else?”

She pulled both legs back up under her, forcing him to straighten. “Do these dishes while I send more emails.”

By the time she'd finished, some twenty minutes later, Mycroft sat at her feet yet again, a teatowel across his knee. His cock stood half-hopeful between his thighs, its bow loosened into a long string that pooled on the floor.

“Your little bow has come apart. You best not have done that yourself.”

“No, mistress,” he said as she shifted. There was enough strain in the undertones of his voice for this to even be believable. She reached down to untangle the ribbon, drawing it free along his dick as he sighed. “Thank you, mistress.”

“Fetch the hairbrush from my bathroom upstairs.”

His breath faltered. “My lady?”

“You heard me, boy.”

When he returned, she patted the sofa. “Sit like a halfway decent human being, you beast, and fix my hair.”

He sank down next to her. As the brush began to pull through her hair, she could feel his hands trembling.

His strokes were even, if slow, pausing at her neck with each pass-through for several seconds before resuming. His free hand hovered alongside her head, occasionally brushing her hair for an instant before pulling away as if burned. She closed her eyes to listen to him breathing while he worked, sharp, deep inhales and exhales. After a few minutes his hand settled on her shoulder, the barest graze, one finger tangling in her hair.

“Please,” he whispered, while she grinned at the ceiling. “May I…pin it, I don’t know…”

“Why do you like my hair so much?”

He stroked her shoulder, tracing the path of a stray wisp. “It’s so light, mistress.”

“Can you plait?”

Mycroft hesitated, for so long that she nearly regretted asking the question. She turned to look at him as he set the brush down.

“Yes, my lady.” He slid one hand against the base of her skull, and she turned back without speaking. His fingers began separating the heft of her hair into three sections. “I am sure you will be much calmer than Eurus.”

Her heart flipped. “Oh, probably.” The lightness of her tone wobbled, though she pressed on through the rush of dread. “I can be very well behaved.”

He laughed, brusque and lingering as he began to plait in earnest. “Mistress is always good to me.”

Mycroft’s hands were steadier than Woody’s, than those of the fourth-form housemate with whom she had once lain abed fixing one another’s hair and tasting one another’s tongues. He worked in efficient silence, stopping only when he reached the end and paused to hold the last unplaited inch in place.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I didn’t  _really_ figure a Holmes to be tactile.” She shrugged. “Surprises even from my steadiest of pets. Did you like that, Mr. Holmes?”

He exhaled across the back of her neck. “Very much, my lady.”

She reached back to take the plait from him, tossing it over her shoulder to fall near her breasts, before facing him. His cock was a deep red against his stomach.

“How long, boy?”

“Always.” He grunted when she pinched his knee. “All day.”

“The great Mycroft Holmes gets off on cleaning and rearranging. How very mundane.”

“I didn’t touch.” His hands shook. “I swear, mistress, I didn’t—”

“Yes, I understand.” She grasped his thigh as his muscles spasmed. “You wanted to, didn’t you?”

“Of course. How could I not?”

“Cleaning is very arousing.”

“ _You_ are, my la—”

She slid her free hand over his mouth.

“Yes, that I actually do know, Mr. Holmes, though I’m glad you’ve learned to pay attention to what is eminently obvious. You still don’t get to touch yourself.” When he groaned against her palm, she tightened her grip around his upper thigh. “I told you that wretched little thing is mine. Do you deserve any mercy?”

His lips tickled her until she freed his mouth, whereupon he gasped. “Whatever my lady deems necessary.”

She squeezed the base of his cock as he moaned.

“My little whore in the end, like them all.” She stroked upward while he whimpered. “Every last little friend I’ve ever seen has ended crying for a bit of relief, and yours isn’t any different. Very needy. Desperate for a quick wank.”

Her fingers circled the head as he twitched.

“I could give you a long, torturous wank instead. What shall you think of while I do so?”

“ _God_ , I don’t—whatever you want, my lady, whatever—”

“The lovely Christian taking your arse? _I’d_ quite like to see this nice rugby player have a turn at it, but I didn’t get to know him all that well last night since there was something of a cock-up at work, did you hear about that?”

Mycroft groaned, his shoulders taut against the back of the sofa as she added pressure to her strokes.

“He had absolutely stunning thighs, and I wanted to ride him and then sit on his face. But somehow I’m spending my time with some dull civil servant instead, whose thighs are not used for any sort of sport.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sure you are, since I know _I_ am. Ah, well.” She ran two fingers across his slit and listened to the strangled noise that emerged from his throat. “We’ll get over it eventually. I’m sure you’d like to come at some point today.”

“Please y— _fuck_.”

The head of his cock was bitter against her tongue, far more sour than she remembered any other tasting. It jumped, half alive of its own dreadful accord, as she mouthed down the shaft, keeping her index finger tickling its head.

“I’m going to cry—”

She choked on the absurdity, so suddenly that her jaws threatened to close and she had to turn away, biting into his thigh.

“God, I’m sorry—” Mycroft’s hands cradled her head as she shook with laughter “—please, Alicia—”

“Daft muppet.” She looked up, still trembling with giggles, into his overbright eyes. “You were really going to cry because a girl was putting her mouth on your cock.”

“No,” he said, entirely too forcefully. “Only—the long wait.”

“Oh, absolutely.” She shrugged as she sat up. “Too late now.” Her hand closed around the base of his prick, and his eyes rolled back into his head as she hauled herself across his lap, hitching her skirt up to her waist. “You had best give me at least half as good a ride as my rugger boy.”

“Don’t think I can,” he whispered, a soft sob, as she slid onto him. His cock burned within her, and she felt it twitch once, twice, before pulsing. He mumbled apologies as he came, his face scrunched against the top of her head, one hand around her waist, the other digging into her arse. She laughed at the ceiling while he came slowly back online, panting into her hair.

“All right, there, minute-man?”

Mycroft blinked as she pulled off of him, leaving his cock to soften alone.

“I’m sorry.” He caught the tissue she tossed to him, wiping his wet prick with fumbling hands. “I could not be your rugger dream.”

She shrugged as she leaned back against the arm of the sofa, still bared to her waist with her skirt pooling around her shoulders, as if it were fifth form Christmas and she were back against her parents’ garden shed with Stephen Faraday, who had been first team rugger and whose cock had, in that moment of first full penetration, seemed as long as her forearm.

“Dreams are best taken care of alone.”

Faraday had fucked her three times that break, his thighs majestic and his thrusts utterly without rhythm, and only during the last had she managed to get her hand close enough to her clit to wring her own pleasure out of him. She slid two fingers into her slickening cunt and began to stroke, the sofa behind her head transformed into the rough wood of the garden shed, her grunts matching those of her faceless fantasy companion and their thick spearing pleasure up toward her womb.

Mycroft’s lips were hot against her skin; he moaned as he pushed his mouth in alongside her fingers.

“Did I invite you, too?”

Her voice was gentle, considering the fire at the base of her spine and the sweat around her forehead, and Mycroft kissed her inner thighs, her clit, around the waistband of her skirt as she resettled her legs around his shoulders. She tossed a section of skirt over his head and giggled,  her breath catching in her chest, as he disappeared under its folds, still kissing her curls.

“Phantom.”

He slid one long finger into her, and she groaned, throwing her arms back to grip the sofa.

“I love your cunt,” he told it, mouthing around the edges of her clit as she attempted to both moan and laugh simultaneously. “I love you against my face and half suffocating me—” she tightened her legs around his neck “—and the way you gasp—”

“Enough,” she told the ceiling, smiling fit to burst. “Shut up and fuck.”

Watching him underneath her skirt was hypnotic, the wave of its folds tracking his movements. He could of course be anyone there—the gorgeous rugby player, the woman down the street with the perfectly round arse who had recently featured in more than one wank, Faraday or Woody or Anthea—and yet when she did eventually close her eyes and begin to roll with the hot pressure between her legs, it was just Mycroft, blazing tight tongue and pillowy arse. Long fantasy fingers stroked her breasts, her hair, a constant whispered litany of “my lady, please, my lady” for the several minutes it took her, grinding down against his lips and the edge of his nose, to eventually fall.

He was whispering in reality by the time she could think again, his head atop her stomach while grey dazzled eyes stared up at her.

“Good, mistress?”

“Right as rain.” She twirled a thinning lock of his hair around her middle finger. “And you, boy?”

He shifted his chin against the hem of her jumper.

“Not so useless anymore.”

“No, Mycroft,” she agreed as he rubbed his thumb in circles across her hip. “That one, thank you God, you’ve got figured out for now.”

He eyed the mess of her plait as she stretched.

“Will you let me fix your hair?”

She tugged on his while he sighed in contentment and said nothing when, some minutes later, she got up in search of a shower, her hair a tangled halo, and left him dozing on the sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is entirely consensual, but the details of "I will verbally humiliate you" in particular are probably somewhat undernegotiated. Some of the humiliation may tread close to body shaming (for kink, but still).


End file.
